Tuesday, December 6

Notes from a Hotel Room, Night I


My hotel room has a large wall that is yellowwhitegrey in that order and there is only a t.v. pinned to it, which is off but reflects everything going on in the room. The writing desk—squeezed next to the toilet & wardrobe—(has a mirror on so I can study the spots on my face) is a damn sight better than the writing desk I have at home. There are no marks or paint. Look at how it reflects the lamplight in the grain! I try to clean the muddy soles of my shoes in the puddles that swim by the entrance—much dimpled fractions of perfect blown by their midnight wind. Hotel is without noise now. I wish you could see how good it looks right now when the lamplight reflects in the grain and is perfect.


I decided to unadore her in
a hotel room
butted against nirvana
to not give a shit any more
about how the top of her
might look
(without purple coat
swung over a rotating
office chair)


an unsuspecting conifer
has lights ringarosied round
it and is
christmas on the whole street


My youngest brother voiced his concerns to me about the music industry. He is so young yet he has all these worries about the music industry and where will end u and if he’ll be able to provide for his family the way “dad has for us”. Always the fatherly burden. What can I tell him? I understood. But I said nothing in return as we stood there while wind blew across the steps that were not quite marble but had patterns in them.


Office Christmas party got dragged out
too long ones and twos leaving into
rainy waiting taxis, mist’s mild decorum
plastered on silk dresses.
Else leaves till just two
in the hotel bar checking
his phone when she goes to piss
you wonder how long this’ll go on.
they seem to get by all right—
his phone is the latest model


“you waiting for a taxi?”
“nah, man, that ain’t me”
In the passenger seat is the
sports page
I haven’t read the sports page
in four days
last week a famous football manager
killed himself

[too much to drink and not enough point]

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